


break, burn, end (begin again)

by streetlightsky



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-09 22:10:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3266135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/streetlightsky/pseuds/streetlightsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Why are you here?”</i>
</p><p>Grant joins Hydra for a particular, yet somewhat vague reason (and leaves for that same, eventually specified reason).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. break

**Author's Note:**

> This was started back in season one and given the context of the story, a lot of canon is ignored. Yes, the title is from a Taylor Swift song, but I assure you, only a small selection of lyrics apply. Multi-chaptered, but I promise the updates will be quick(er), at least compared to last time. Characters and general universe don't belong to me. Errors, grammatical or factual, intended or not, do belong to me. Rated for abstract descriptions of sex and one relatively profane word in future chapters.

“Why are you here?”

She stared at him, hard and cold from across the distance of the room. Under the dim light, he crossed his arms in attempt to maintain some sort of authority he was used to having over her. But here was not the Bus where she only held real weight in the medical lab. And here was not S.H.I.E.L.D. where his Level 7 outranked her Level 5.

Here was a seized and infiltrated facility for Hydra, an organization Grant just recently pleaded his allegiance to in a heated and critical moment.

The decision had been simple, really. Yes or no. No variables to agonize over. No consequences to take into consideration. There was one side or the other; nothing else could cloud his judgement. He had known for a while—suspected and contemplated, wondered and deliberated. But to finally choose after months of impassivity, Grant didn’t know why he had ever hesitated.

_“What do you think, Agent Ward? You shot the wrong Clairvoyant before. Care to shoot the right one?”_

The answer was suddenly clear—so obvious, so easy.

So he stood. Loaded his weapon. Cocked. Stared. And—

One, two. Three.

Four-five.

Loyalty was such a complicated thing.

“Garrett,” he answered gruffly. “I did this for him. He saved my life, made me who I am. I owe him everything.”

And he did, for the most part. Garrett taught him how to win the fights he started, to get the results he wanted, to come out on top no matter the methods. He took an interest in him when nobody else did and that was more than Grant ever thought was possible. He had a duty to this man.

So he let his superior lead—followed his orders, brought Raina to the Barbershop, killed without blinking, raided the Fridge. All the while, he didn’t say a single word. He didn’t give away his reasoning or reveal any emotion. He had already allowed himself a moment of weakness. He knew better than to show another.

Because though it wasn’t a lie, it wasn’t the truth either.

His supervising officer might have pulled him out of hell, but there was no mistake in Grant’s mind: those five bullets were not for the senior agent or his association.

“Then why hadn’t you joined Hydra earlier?”

It was a question he continued to ask himself. What could he provide for them? What would he be willing to do for their cause? And that was where things blurred. Grant blinded himself with obligation. He had stared at the line of betrayal until his eyes burned, kept it in check, but told no one of his discoveries. When he finally crossed, moved beyond the point of no return, he was leaving himself susceptible and disposable.

He had no claim to their beliefs, no need for their ideals. Grant would be of service, but he was not there for the war.

This was not about the two sides of a coin—right versus wrong, S.H.I.E.L.D. versus Hydra.

This was about her.

“We were teammates. We lived on a plane together for months. I know you were loyal to Coulson, to S.H.I.E.L.D. I know that you cared about those people, Ward,” she said directly. “I know you were willing to lay down your life for them. You were on their side. Why did you change your mind?”

“I told you,” he responded as evenly as possible. The last thing he wanted to do was give himself away. “I’m here for Garrett. He saved my life so I saved his.”

“Should I expect to do the same then?”

“What?” His eyes snapped wide and large in disbelief.

“You saved my life, after all. Are you expecting something in return?” Her voice was icy, callous. None of the old bright life shone in a single syllable uttered by her mouth. Grant wondered how easy it came and went for her.

“No, of course not.”

He couldn’t ask her to do that, not when it undermined his entire rationale. His relationship with Garrett was completely distinct from the one he had with her, whatever that might be. Regardless, it was precisely why Grant couldn’t let his intentions be known.

They weren’t dark and deceptive, malicious and ill willed. He wasn’t looking to collect any favors. They were what they had always been his whole life: of indisputable commitment. The difference this time was that Grant could actually keep his promise. He was prepared to do so.

“You don’t need to worry about me, okay?” he said finally. She merely stared harder. “Considering I got you out and that they all think I’m the double agent, there’s no point in me going back or feeding them information.”

The possibility of returning to S.H.I.E.L.D. never occurred to him. It wasn’t an option he cared to entertain. There was nothing left for him there anymore. No reason to go back, especially since they’d probably gun him down on sight.

Perhaps they didn’t deserve the duplicity. Joining a cause, protecting innocent people, it was all noble work. After all, they had never mistreated him unlike some others. Yet it wasn’t as if he was the sole perpetrator inflicting the pain. They had been long conned and misled prior to his choice. Grant had simply become the known enemy.

In a different situation, if she wasn’t involved, he couldn’t say he would do it again.

“Just remember what’s most important around here,” she reminded him with a sharp look before exiting.

As if she could get rid of him that quickly.

He was Hydra now, like her. But while he had only changed sides, she seemed to transform into someone else entirely.

Grant, however, knew better than most. The self she tried to bury was surely still the one at heart. There was no doubt in his mind that the person that just walked out of the room, possibly a leading scientists for this organization and a far better liar than anyone expected, was the girl he met all those months ago. Not under a guise or cover, but the same brave and scared soul willing to toss herself into the boundless sky for others.

He had nobody to prove it to but himself. No one cared for such sentimentalities, not when world domination dangled a much more lucrative reward in front of them. It was partly why he came in the first place. There were many reasons—all vindicated as selfless acts of defense.

His role was made easier by the assignment to Project Centipede. He didn’t particularly like flower dresses or any version of Mike Peterson, but would tolerate that and more to keep up pretenses. The end would eventually justify the means that was all that mattered. Grant could be their poster boy for betrayal, their errand-runner. But he couldn’t let his decision be for nothing.

As it turned out, working for Hydra was like working for S.H.I.E.L.D. He was the specialist, the man that got his hands dirty. He was still exposed to danger, still got shot at, still came back to her with a laundry list of unhealed bruises and reopened wounds.

The circumstances of being alone with her were not unusual. Despite knowing there were actual licensed doctors on board, Grant would only let himself be seen by her. He knew she could refuse, turn him away, but she never did. So she, with her lab coat and ponytail, her quiet concern and unassuming confidence, tended to his injuries. And he, with his bare chest and bandages, his undisturbed demeanor and stone-cold expression, received her care.

Those were the moments he basked in and relished—the privacy of two minds and a girl that was a far better healer than punisher.

“You’re of no use to me if you keep tearing stitches,” she commented once.

“I’m just doing my job.”

“And what’s that, to die an unreasonable death from a bacterial infection?” He might have smiled if things were different.

The battlefield had become much crueler since the insurgence. With Garrett and others planning, strategizing, and giving the orders, he was the one sent out to face his former colleagues, his old team. Grant knew it was on purpose. They were testing him.

They could take him away from his normal post under her command, but he wouldn’t be deterred. If that was where she stayed, where she wanted to be, Grant had no intention of leaving.

He saw her focus, her determination. She showed charge and power. She pushed the limits without confining rules. He watched her work with equal if not increased fervor than before. That part hadn’t changed, but rather, validated the point of him hovering in her shadows when she demanded nothing less of excellence—of others and of herself.

Grant found her at the shooting range once with not a prototype or an ICER in her grasp, but a standard sidearm pistol aimed steadily at the outlined target. There were so many things he could have said, but instead, stood behind the glass and observed.

“What?” she asked curtly when she finished.

“I thought you failed your field test.”

“I did.”

He believed her. The paper was only pierced nine out of ten times.

If it were up to him, he would keep it that way. She would never have to aim that gun at a live target, be in a position where she needed to kill to survive, or squeeze the trigger. She would never have to reach that state of numbness.

She could pretend that he was like the others, distance herself, but he wasn’t so easily deceived—not when she stood where he had years ago.

Grant might not be that scared kid anymore, but he still lived in the wilderness, still waited for someone to save him from the savagery. He was still doing this by himself.

Even if it were too late for him, he would make sure it wasn’t for her.


	2. burn

It wasn’t a surprise when they started having sex.

After a long but not extensively difficult operation, Grant returned to her headquarters with the usual bump and bruise. Their mutual silence was not a cause for concern and he promptly disappeared after she finished to report to Garrett. He had it on good authority that she could access files and reports as she pleased, but generally chose not to be informed of casualty numbers in favor of scientific percentages.

Later that night, she arrived at his door and when he let her in, she created a trail of clothing to which he could not deny.

He woke up alone the next morning, but found worth in the callousness beyond those four walls for the first time. The indelible yet indiscernible dent left on the cold wrinkled sheets and his stretched-out arm revealed more than just a sleeping partner. Illusions of white and a pulsing surge until the blackout gave him proof.

Grant wasn’t a romantic. But contrary to what people believed, he could see past the mission.

He fitted in perhaps better than he liked at Hydra. His soiled hands stained his appearance and marked him like others. Secrets were common lines running through all of them—used for perceptive persuasion and the occasional ambush. But with her, every moment of connection seemed to rinse off the residue he couldn’t erase himself. And instead of scars and blood, they shared remnants of purity.

Their patterns did not go undetected. Garrett made snide remarks that Grant let slide. Others with supposed authority went so far as to dissuade such a relationship in fear of delayed progress for their righteous duty. There was no time for sensitivity and emotion when conquest demanded vigilance and domination.

He hated to compare this to what he had before. On the Bus, flying around the world with a lackluster and incoherent group, the effects of the Berserker Staff coursing through his veins, it had been too much to handle. Even for him, who never panicked in the face of a nuclear bomb, the buried memories of a lifetime he didn’t care to remember sparked uncontrollable turmoil for a period too long. The distraction came from an unlikely source, but sufficed until he regained surface and stood on solid ground again.

Then, there hadn’t been solace. Only frustration and shared respective pain.

“It’s not the same,” he told her. Standing in an empty hallway with their backs against the wall, they waited for the arrival of her new supplies and substances. She made no movements to acknowledge his words.

Grant hoped he hadn’t tipped his hand too early, but it didn’t appear to matter once they were rolling around in bed and pressing for the searing touch of skin on skin.

Sometimes, he wondered if she needed it more than he did. Grant watched her, waited for the fatigue, the moment of collapse. He saw them because she gave them to him. A brief flash of eye contact portraying that knowing look and she turned away ashamed as if any sign of weakness would ruin her.

If that were true, he was surely a goner.

The handful of times he encountered his former team on the field, he was forced to confront that very potential of disaster. And she had been right. He did care about them. Their lives, or deaths, mattered in this war. Grant, however, already chose to protect another one.

In a standoff on the side of a full-blown gunfight, they tried to bargain: the mind of a brilliant scientist in exchange for the meager survival of the damned traitor.

It was almost pitiably humorous that they still believed in her to a fault. Nobody suspected her to be the culprit. And the twisted beauty exposed itself in the irony of it all—that she, their supposed promise and hope, played an instrumental role in their downfall.

But moreover, the incongruous situation rendered all of them, no matter their affiliation, fundamentally flawed. The ones that cared spent too much time failing while trying and the ones claiming they didn’t seemingly achieved their opponents’ intended goal.

They got one thing right, though, in prioritizing her over him. Grant didn’t disagree. But selfishly, for his own sake and existence, he could not let her go. And that was the unknowing mistake in their proposed trade. There was no him without her—figuratively, literally. Regardless of her decisive resistance in returning to their disorderly ranks, he would not relinquish her if it meant his quick demise.

They would never get her back.

“I don’t need you to defend me,” she said, angry and perhaps offended at his audacity to keep her cloaked.

“I’m not doing it for you,” he spat back. As if he had finally deluded himself into believing in the purpose behind the work.

At the end of the day, that was all they left for him. With the oppressive father figure hell-bent on revenge and the girl of mysteries still aloof, the only other thing remaining was what he unfortunately became defined by: the honorable mission. In their opinion, Grant epitomized nothing more than a soldier in the war, an expendable pawn in their game.

When people expected the hard exterior, the solid shell, he gave it to them. Maybe that was all he had ever known, the sole person inside—a hollow being molded to its temporary creator’s taste. And having been tossed between slimy and degraded hands, his insides naturally accumulated the filth of his handlers.

The startling moments where he miraculously found the kinder and gentler master, a guiding hand donated time and flexibility for cleansing, regeneration, and the chance to develop something for himself. But Grant would stumble and retreat to familiar shields in disbelief that anyone could offer him such a magnanimous opportunity. And ultimately, he gave it up in pessimistic fear and wild hope that someone—she—could and would do a better job.

He followed her tail, her headstrong persistence with blind loyalty. She traversed easily from one organization to another while he picked up the slack and sweeping pieces willingly. There was no need to call or beckon; he came on his own volition because he knew nothing else but that.

With her hair falling over his face, fingernails in his back, and ragged breath mixing with his, he buried himself in the heated streaks and neon lights produced from their bodies in the dark.

“Why are you here?”

It was his room, he thought. She knocked and he opened the door.

If he didn’t know any better, he would assume that she too suffered from a lack of direction.

“I already told you,” he answered.

She sat up and the sheet covering her glorious body slipped into her lap to bare all that Grant still hoped to map with his lips and hands. Her tangled and flattened mane rested on the plane of her back, which he would never cease to marvel at in endless appreciation for clear and unmarked skin.

“I was a seventeen-year-old girl with two PhDs. Do you know who gave a damn about me?” she asked, turning to look at him lying there with his slightly uncomprehending mind.

“No restrictions, no limitations, they said. I had a million questions.”

The light in her eyes shifted as she spoke. It grew nostalgic and innocent—reminiscing about the simpler life she had somehow led as an adolescent posing as an adult.

“They told me I could do great things. But all I wanted was to know.”

Grant drank her words like ingesting fluids after dehydration—pure action, but no thought. He always took what she gave him without hesitation. Perhaps that was the error in his ways, a fault he registered but didn’t know how to correct.

He didn’t know how to do this.

“Why are you here?” she repeated.

And in his flimsy attempt to reveal truth and authenticity, he replied, “Because I didn’t want to be alone.”

What hindered his efforts was the ill-matched body language. Desperation was not a requirement, but vulnerability was and his emotionally stunted persona in this case showed no empathy. Even as she crawled out of bed and dressed in swift movements, he held his position of unawareness all too well.

Only in the very last second as his door closed and separated him from the woman he had tried to appeal to did he see what he missed—who before had been by his side, but now just a ghost that left decorative traces and imprints illuminating his folly.

If he were to find meaning beyond his unfeeling role, keep her afloat in this swarming sea, commit to and succeed in accomplishing these minimal yet substantive objectives, he would have to see them as more than they currently were. Not as necessary responsibilities but personal desires. Not as a burden but a blessing.

And he would feel it—the deep, visceral, and aching burn defining his true intentions. The sensation rumbled low in his stomach, flowed in tips of his toes, and beat against his chest and head slowly but increasingly every time she didn’t quite look at him the way he wanted her to.


	3. end

He had wanted more than this.

When dreams still held weight and were known to become tangible, the life he imagined didn’t involve gunfire and betrayal. Desperate to cling onto any shred of humanity, he followed Garrett who promised freedom and independence. And he delivered, albeit wickedly. Grant walked in the outlined footsteps, bid his commander’s orders, and assented without protest when his superior coerced the devilish acts out of his being until they became routine.

There, then, he gave up the exact thing he craved: mercy.

The pretty Brit at first was a bonus for choosing this insensitive path, but swiftly transformed into the temple of his dedications. In an unforeseen assault, from the courage under her covert cover, as she fell through the atmosphere, Grant snapped straighter and far more devoted than he had ever been.

Perhaps he had failed to detect just how long her sovereignty ruled over his mind—replacing those once auspicious ideals with seeds of her own. Enchanted, he never realized that the spell cast over his submission strayed his allegiance until nights her limbs interwove with his.

Still, not here. Even with suburbia off the table, there was more to do, places to be. Grant had lockers full of aliases and money and safe houses under his various identities. He could go.

They could go.

In an anticlimactic end, they would run into the dark—nameless and faceless with vigilance and discretion for the ones that tried to bring them back or tear them apart. And what next, Grant didn’t know, but the spontaneity and unknown invited far more than the constant threat of his soul down in this makeshift hell.

He wished she knew. Or rather, he foolishly hoped she felt the same.

“Ward.”

One look at Mike Peterson and the figments dissipated. In a room and world filled with dead and alive machines, there was no relief.

“What,” he responded in a tone so terse and typical of a man with his experiences. Without her, his days were reduced to laborious and nonsensical tasks—a form of autopilot he switched on for every journey outside these fences. Dealing with subordinates and asserting what was left of his authority promptly fell into such categories of his compartmentalized mind.

“You should head down to the control room.”

“I’m a little busy.”

“Simmons is there.”

Grant looked up from his work—shrewd, calculating, unbelieving. “She’s in her lab. I saw her. She kicked me out this morning.”

“She’s in the control room. With Quinn.”

And that set him off.

His heavy, determined strides brought him to her unfamiliar location wondering what could possibly lure her attention away. Worse, what harm could be done in a place full of nothing but hard and deplorable decisions. That abject fear and his distrust in Quinn pushed him all the way through the door with glaring and disdainful eyes criticizing his intrusion.

Even with every seat occupied, every monitor in function, the room was barren. No support inside or leadership amongst the bevy of blank faces.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded.

“The serum has been compromised.” Her tone was short, clipped, but laced with strings of insecurity. Quinn fussed while the conversations around them grew louder and more clamorous. He looked to the screen and saw the commotion, the real conflict.

Fitz, her old faithful companion; Trip, their stand-in specialist. Plus another he recognized as one of Coulson’s supplements outside their standard recruits. They had barged through that Hydra facility, weapons hot, and now stood mere feet away from the coveted target of their toil.

“Can you reproduce it or not?” Quinn asked with impatience.

“It’s not that simple,” she said, pitch wavering with inflexions of doubt and something else. His attention pivoted back to her then as she teetered on that all too penetrable line he had tried to barricade.

And there lied the hidden truth of Grant’s intention, his whole justification in breaking bonds he had scrupulously formed: to catch her before she tumbled into a venomous hole of damning and irrevocable choices. When the essence of her integrity was in question, the heart of her character, he would not hesitate to shield her from the conniving forces awaiting her demise.

He would protect her from this, from them.

“Get out,” he told Quinn.

“Don’t be stupid. Just because they used to be your friends doesn’t mean you go soft. There’s protocol. You built in fail-safes for a reason.”

“Get. Out.”

The room went cold with muted chatter. Even here with their self-serving ambitions, there was still rank and hierarchy. By default, sheer association with Garrett gave him access to power in this otherwise chaotic scene. And no one dared to argue with his reigning voice while their precious facility hovered on the cusp of ruins.

“We can’t…” she started and faltered when they became the remaining standouts. Her delicate words permeated their air and drew him closer.

The secret was unmistakable: lucid eyes imploring him for shelter as they reflected the video feeds, pressed lips afraid of further speech, unscathed skin paling under the pressure of time and loyalty. In her struggle to display composure, the fissure in her expression exposed all that Grant needed to step in.

“I can’t,” she said. In reverence and relief, he almost smiled.

“I can.”

Her departing scurry echoed in his ears after she left. He stayed to play the part, claim his customary role as the perpetrator, and dole out residual responsibilities, but turned his back as the wall of screens erupted in flares and heat Grant could practically sense on the back of his neck.

The fire, however, the true urgency, was getting to her. Not difficult to find, but harrowing to see her tucked away in the corner of the lab. Arms encircling her drawn knees, head buried, she seemed alone.

Tentative, he crouched down and exercised every ounce of self-control before reaching out prematurely. Her constrained sobs pierced the surrounding silence with no one to witness this breakdown except for him. In any other circumstance, he would’ve been flattered in the trust she now demonstrated. But at the cost of her virtue, no sentiment or relationship would be worth that loss.

It wasn’t gone yet, though. In her small, faint feat of defiance, he knew she was still there—cracked from a setback, but far from shattered.

Under his watch, she wouldn’t ever fall.

“Jemma.”

His hand lingered above the round of her shoulder as he breathed out her name. He hoped to be welcome, to be of service, to exemplify the solace she deserved. Because despite his perpetual internal examination and self-discovery, the ineradicable red stained through the layers of his Kevlar, and undeniable fear that he would somehow infect her with the wickedness, he could never leave her.

She was, after all, the ultimate endgame.

When her head at long last lifted, the world appeared that much better. Tearstains gave her youth and innocence, made her human. Her grace reflected like a beacon, a sacred light in the darkness. And with her finally in his arms, Grant felt the effects of his binding pledge erupt from the depths of his being.

They lied quiet on his bed—his hand around her wrist for the rhythm of her pulse and her head against his chest for the beat of his heart. Here, there was no storm or war, but clarity in the shared calm that lulled them to ephemeral serenity.

“Why are you here?”

This time, he didn’t hide or vacillate—not when the answer liberated him.

“I didn’t want you to be alone.”

She kissed like honey, an addicting substance he savored to his high. He let her set the pace and take control. And while no faster or slower than any previous engagement, the emotion reduced their usual zeal to a strung-out reluctance for the end.

This was her last night. With a roomful of spectators ready to contradict any attempt at repudiation, even with his advocacy, their word rendered her fate here bleak. Hydra’s dictatorship did not tolerate disobedience and sympathy for the enemy. No matter her status, her talents, she would be punished for wayward thoughts.

“I’m coming with you.”

She shook her head regrettably. “It’s too dangerous. They will find us if we’re together.”

“I can help. I can protect you,” he insisted, heart in his lap and on the verge of desperation.

“It’s better this way.”

Grant wasn’t so sure of that. The ruthlessness of the organization would not desist until satisfied with their secrets in peril. Despite her enigmatic abilities of furtiveness, time proved his skillset to be beneficial in situations concerning survival. When that was all he knew, he could guarantee her safety.

His terms, though, rarely governed his actions. Flashes of escape behind hazy and wondrous pupils held no basis without mutuality. The fantastical plan only existed under reciprocal need. And while armed with evidence to verify this fact, Grant couldn’t ever use such information against her.

He followed her summons, orders, and guidance. So, with his head in her hands and the stinging touch of her lips, he was forced to let go.

“Don’t look for me,” she said. “Find yourself instead.”

They grilled him for answers in disbelief that he wouldn’t know her whereabouts—using and manipulating the relationship to gain superficial advantages he did not care for. Repeated phrases or silence followed the first few interrogation methods as if they had forgotten his training and reputation. Their efforts were futile.

He didn’t know; he wished he had gone with her.

Outside, hot air swirled in a gentle breeze. The steps taken were cautious and new as he fled the scene and all that hollowed him out. Freedom felt a lot like running with no destination in mind. But this was the logical conclusion, a personal choice.

He could not stay another minute without her.


	4. begin again

The day Hydra’s final heads were cut, Grant slept in his Italian countryside cottage. Before that, time in Venezuela and Canada with covers shallow enough to question his effort and intent as if he wanted to be found—a ceaseless chasing game for sheer enjoyment.

Pathetically, they made him feel alive. Adopting aliases of ordinary people masked his capabilities, lowered his standing. Selective portions of the past could remain in their hidden locations, but to bury the old persona was an unnecessary rejection. Starting over proved much harder than edits and additions.

Still, in humming apprehension, he ensconced himself with particular precision knowing that she was out there.

Their pursuit went cold his first week in Tuscany and seven more in subsequent solitude produced all the answers Grant needed. After obtaining certainty and swallowing the last of his former life, he dropped all but one of his passports into the kitchen sink along with burning matches. His picture twisted and contorted until the flames engulfed his face into blackness.

But even with that burden reduced to ashes and the void of meaningless names no longer requiring his assistance, he didn’t know who to be. A single identity left for him to represent provided no margin for error and the tall task of inserting a history full of unshakable tribulations presented challenges he had never encountered.

For once, he was a clueless man. Life ahead stood empty—awaiting his bounty of unspecified desires. Too many options in front of him and none possessing the appeal or significance he looked for. It didn’t matter the setting, the atmosphere; Grant was a child in his quest for reinvention with ironic innocence soaking through his every move.

The world seemed aimless now in his uninformed shoes. Petty everyday events demonstrated no urgency or flavor. Hours bled into each other as he stood his fair distance from the impossible point of assimilation. Nothing he did had value or personal satisfaction.

Halfway to France, a distinctly tall, blonde agent approached him with both ease and caution to offer him one last warning and goodbye. Softened by scarce practice, he didn’t even draw his gun—much preferring physical contact that he sorely missed nowadays.

“Taking the scenic route through the French Riviera? Coulson was always the nostalgic type.”

“Actually, he’s looking towards the future these days,” she replied. “And since we know you left early, been keeping a low profile, I told him this was unnecessary, but he’s tying up loose ends before the next phase.”

“He wants to know if I’m interested?” he asked, the tick in his voice revealing surprise.

“Wants to know if you’re going to be a problem.”

For them, the foolish need to support the overwhelming and supernatural didn’t stop. It directed their duties, proposed standards to live by and goals to achieve. It gave them purpose when such a thing had long been lost in their old lives. Grant had dedicated the majority of his pains to those claims once but came up unrewarded. There was no appeal in returning. They didn’t want him anyway.

He had been cast off and abandoned before; this was no different. With frequency, the despair of rejection diminished and numbness instead settled inside to generate the guards of his underdeveloped demeanor. The cycle persisted even here in idle penance. Grant could not fix what he did not understand, when all he had been taught was wrong.

There had been one right, though—one shining element both constant and fleeting. In the unpredictable throes of undercover law enforcement or the mischievous narcissism of world domination, he stumbled across sweet virtue in the heated battlefields of his work.

And the answer, the dawning realization of the origins of his devotion, was not astonishing but as obvious as the moment he disregarded his safety for another’s.

There was no question of her persistence, not with her vitality in tact. She was out there like him—no longer defined by espionage or deceit, but their remarkable fortes in the normal world. Grant knew, somehow, as if bound together by tangible chains; he had not come undone yet and neither had she.

It was the reason his half-hearted attempts at reconstruction failed. A stolen part of his foundation rested elsewhere waiting for retrieval now that he recognized its importance. He didn’t know the puzzle’s actual image, but that without one piece, there was no final product. There was no him.

At last Grant saw the circumstance for what it was instead of what it lacked: the same silent beckoning she conjured just by existing. It was never her intent, he knew, but the connection was too strong to be relinquished permanently. Somehow, usefulness became attachment and reciprocation kept them bonded. This game of catch and release in fact ended with the former—a result Grant planned to accomplish.

Eight months he searched until her silhouette resurfaced. Casual on a café stool with the impending lunch crowd beginning to arrive, she sat with unaffected grace that he stood more than content on the sidewalk gazing at the person who restored him with vigor.

And on that apt day, with the reinstallation of S.H.I.E.L.D. right around the corner, he let himself indulge in the rapture of a beautiful woman.

The bell of the door and the bustling ambiance weren’t nearly as loud as the hammer of his heart. Each step he took—closer, surer—was satiated with anticipation. Grant had never felt this way before, had never cared enough to. But she, the culmination of one final mission, was worth the newfound feeling of emotional suspense.

He reached her, swung one leg over the circular seat, and she said, “You’re late.”

Wonder stunned him into a pause and reverent gaze for all that he still didn’t know about her. He was so fascinated, so attracted. She turned her head from her steaming cup to properly acknowledge him and the ease of her smile told him exactly what he wanted to know.

“Traffic was a bitch,” he replied with a shrug and finally settled in. She broke into soft giggles and he grinned with genuine pleasure. Here, they were just two people—two unsuspecting, unassuming, uncomplicated people. Maybe friends, maybe more, but undoubtedly linked with a lengthy and rich history no one could fathom.

“How was Paris?”

“Dull, as always. Good coffee, though,” he commented without missing a beat. “Speaking of which, aren’t you more of a tea kind of girl?”

“Coffee makes me feel more American.”

“That’s too bad. I’ve always preferred the English side.”

It was instinctual, but not insincere. He, with the tools and mastermind of a specialist, took all this time to make that separation and find the conviction to execute in case this exact situation occurred. And she, with the magnificence and aura of an angel, received him with equal wit and sensibility.

They worked well together, complimented each other. They always did.

And there, in the neatly packaged bundle next to him, the solution to his woes, Grant found himself as she had advised. Feuding organizations could no longer lure and deter his attention from the truth, the single most important aspect of his being: not his status, fights, or fickle loyalties, but his muted aptitudes unearthed for implementation.

“So,” he said, waving the waitress over for some coffee. “Lunch? What are we having?”

Over the rim of his mug, he watched her effervescence with adoration knowing that the confident, courageous, and carefree girl he would follow to the ends of the earth transferred so naturally to this conventional role. She exuberated calm energy, provided a soothing presence, and embodied all the intricacies of this life with seamless effort Grant could never replicate by himself.

But with her, it was simple.

She recited his order verbatim without a glance at the menu. He nudged her shoulder with his to get a reaction smile after some light teasing. Their forks jabbed at each other’s plates without interjection or disapproval. And after he tipped his head back in hearty laughter from her amusing story, Grant finally understood the thrilling rush streaming through his veins.

It wasn’t just the comfort of their persistent connection or the delight of mutual affinity, but rather the undulated swell of a new beginning with the woman he loved.


End file.
